


HWD event - Her Kind

by gnostic_heretic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Extramarital Affairs, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hetalia Writers Discord, Historical, Introspection, Lesbian Character, Mythology References, Origins, Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Sensuality, Stream of Consciousness, Suggestive Themes, Trans Female Character, Witchcraft, her kind, hwd female characters event
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:18:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14251911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnostic_heretic/pseuds/gnostic_heretic
Summary: "I have gone out, a possessed witch,haunting the black air, braver at night;dreaming evil, I have done my hitchover the plain houses, light by light:lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.A woman like that is not a woman, quite.I have been her kind."- Her Kind, by Anne Sexton.All of the fics written for Her Kind, the female characters event on the Hetalia Writers Discord server! Various one-shot of various themes with as many characters as I could feel inspired to write. Enjoy!





	1. Once We Were Warriors

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, gals and everyone in between, I am so excited for this week's event! Starting with the fic I've written for day one, I don't know if I'll be able to fill all the prompts during the week, but I'll do my best- and perhaps I'll do the ones missing after the week is over, and still post them here! n_n

Hungary walks back and forth through the piano room, heels clicking on the wonderful marble floor of the palace. She tries to take a deep breath, but her corset restrains her lungs, leaving her gasping for air. She is not yet used to it, probably will never be.  
_To be beautiful is to suffer_ , Poland had told her, the first time he helped her out with lacing up one.  
She starts fidgeting with the lace of her sleeves, waiting nervously for her announced guest to come in. There he is, sure enough, she can hear his heels clicking now, faintly on the other side of the corridor; in a moment, the door slams open.  
"I was waiting for you, Prussia. Take your seat."  
He scoffs at her, glaring as she retrieves a chair, carved wood and red brocade. Fit for a queen.  
Gilbert flops on it with the grace of a swine.  
"So", she nervously tries to break the ice, since Gilbert is seemingly not intentioned to do that any time soon, "the valet has told me that you needed to speak to me urgently. On what matters?"  
He avoids her gaze, and mutters something she cannot hear.  
"I'm sorry, what?"  
He furrows his brows, giving her an irritated stare. "I said, _congratulations on your marriage_."  
The sarcasm in his voice is evident, and Hungary struggles to keep her balance, her politeness, to not _grab his hair and kick him in the groin and drag him outside_.  
"Gilbert", she says coldly, "if you're here to behave like a spoiled, entitled boy, you can leave. Now."  
"Ok, fine", he spits, "I'm here to talk to you."  
Hungary squints at him, wondering what it is that he wants. "I knew that already, and I asked you what are you here for."  
"I am here because, Hungary, you know as well as I do that this is a farce, and it needs to stop."  
"What is a farce, exactly?"  
Her irritation only grows: she thinks she knows what Prussia is here to imply.  
"Your wedding. This room, this... _dress_... the fake beauty mark on your face! The way you speak like a _girl_ and act like a fop. You know as well as I do, Hungary."  
Her face is ablaze, her heart pumping with anger.  
"And what do you presume to know", she says, "what do you think you _know_ about me?"

Unexpectedly, suddenly, Prussia stands from his chair and kneels in front of her.  
He holds her hand dearly, yet roughly. It makes her blood boil.

"I know who you are, and I know what I have always seen. Do you remember, Ervin, those days on the battlefield?  
Just you and me, blood and sweat, the ring of chainmail and echoes of steel on steel...! You are a _warrior_ , my friend, not a _lady_."  
His blazing red eyes meet hers, cold and unmovable.  
"My name is _Erzsébet_ , if you please. Do not speak of me like that ever again-"  
" _Please_ ", he whispers, "Hungary, this is not you. Run away with me, and we will fight and yearn for each other, as friends, as we always did- I know you miss it. I know you miss me."  
"I, as a matter of fact, do not."  
"Your eyes can't lie to me."  
His face is flushed, distorted in the smile of a fanatic, a nostalgic, a man who lives in the past.  
Erzsébet cannot stand the sight, it _sickens_ her.  
"Leave my room at once."  
"Not without you, Ervin."

" _You don't get it, Gilbert_!"  
The sound of her voice echoes through the room, and then it's just heavy, empty silence.  
Prussia stares at her, wide-eyed. Hungary feels her face tense, wicked, distorted by anger and pain.  
He walks towards the door he came from, heels once again clicking on the marble floor.  
_Click. Click._ Suddenly, he stops.  
"What is there to get? I can see you're not happy. And I'm sure you can see it too."  
His cocky, arrogant voice is too much to handle.  
Erzsébet feels her pulse pressing against her veins, her muscles tense up. She walks towards him, fast, faster- heels clicking on the floor, _clickclickclick_ , she passes him, gets up to one of the old armors leaning on the walls, draws its _sword_ -  
A rapier, legacy of the presence of Spain in this same room long before it became hers.  
She points it towards Prussia, arm tense and unforgiving eyes. He stands in front of her, unarmed.  
"If you don't leave now", she says, her voice lower than before- lower than it had been in a long, long time- "if you don't leave now, Gilbert, I'll show you the lady _and_ the warrior."  
He gives her a pitiful look, and leaves without saying a word to her face.  
From the corridor, she hears his voice.  
_You'll regret this._  
She knows she will not.  
And only now she notices how much her breath has gotten heavy, her lungs burning with pain and yearning for relief from the bones of the corset, constricting her ribs.  
She ungracefully falls to the floor, panting, flushed, her eyes swelling up with tears.

And the tears flow freely as she gazes at the ceiling, kneeling on cold marble, holding the cold steel in her hands. From a fresco above her head, naked Aphrodite smiles playfully at her.  
_I will not regret this, I am sure._  
_We were warriors, Gilbert, that much is true. Once we were warriors; now I am_ Erzsébet _, and you're still the cocky boy screaming for my attention. I'm sure you will understand, one day, I'm sure you will be a_ man _. Life will go on._


	2. Memories of Elysium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This BARELY makes it to the required 500 words, but it was so much fun to write!  
> Short BelaCzech, because who doesn't have a crush on Belarus?

_Do you remember, Natalya, the day we spent on Plešné jezero?_  
_July 1993._  
_The sun of was shining, warm and bright, reflecting on every ripple in the cold blue water._

* * *

 

Natalya looked at the small lake ahead of them, balancing herself barefoot on a rock.  
Behind her, Eliška followed, carrying a basket of sandwiches and bottles of water.  
The forest they came from was thick, green and lush, and Eliška was not expecting it- the burst of light, so sudden and brilliant.  
"I think it's almost lunchtime", she said, setting a cloth on the ground.  
She looked at Natalya, standing proud and tall.  
Her pale skin was glistening, as if she radiated her own light. _Something sacred_ , Eliška thought, and something about Belarus reminded of a beautiful statue of Hebe that she once saw in Saint Petersburg.  
Even on that day, Natalya had been with her.  
_It's ironic_ , she thought, _how much the presence of people can go unnoticed, if you are not alone with each other._  
Back then, she could not see how much similar she looked, carved in marble, the reflection of a Goddess. The goddess of eternal youth, Natalya, with her long hair flowing over her shoulders, her blonde eyelashes fluttering in the sunlight as she looked far, far away into the horizon in that sweet summer afternoon.  
" _Česko_ ", she said suddenly, interrupting Eliška's train of thoughts. Reminding her that she was, in fact, not a statue- not a Goddess, but a Human; or well, _not quite_. It was hard sometimes to remember the nature of life as a Nation, a strange and alienating experience.  
Not quite a human, not quite a God.  
Natalya stepped off the rock, and closer to Eliška.  
"I want to take a swim.", she told her.  
"Sure, go ahead. I'll have a sandwich."  
"No. I want to take a swim _with you_."  
Eliška tried to protest, reminding her of the long walk they had taken on the path to come here- her special place, the one where no one but her had ever been in centuries, the one that she was sure would impress Belarus the most.  
In all response Natalya grabbed her arm by the elbow, a mischievous smile on her lips.  
"It's going to be fun", she said, and next thing Eliška felt was the cold water at her feet.  
"Fine, fine! Let me at least take off my dress!"  
Natalya smiled, but she did not let go of her arm. "I'll take care of that."  
Eliška's face flushed, and she used all her strength to pull away.  
"No, thank you. I can do it myself."  
Natalya answered with a shrug. Slowly, almost too slowly, she slipped out of her flowing gown, waiting for Eliška to do the same.  
Once they were both in their bathing suits, she held her hand tenderly.  
Natalya's hand was warm, her touch so delicate.  
Eliška suddenly felt hot.  
"You know", she said, "I think a bath is a good idea, after all."

In the cold water, they swam together, and Eliška had never seen Natalya laugh so much.  
When they finally came out of the water to eat their sandwiches, the sun was already low. Yet still bright, so bright, illuminating Natalya's back with Her golden rays.

* * *

 

_Natalya, do you remember that day?  
_ _That afternoon, I really thought: wow, she looks like a Rusalka._

_So, like a ghost? You're not the first to tell me that._

_No, no. Not a ghost, but ah, you see-- like a Saint, or like a witch? You see, almost a goddess, but not quite._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Rusalka is a water spirit in Slavic folklore, similar to water nymphs. Often represented as the ghost of a young woman haunting a lake or river; however, for pagans they were considered benevolent spirits linked with fertility, of both people and crops.  
> The aforementioned statue of Hebe, the cupbearer of the Gods, was sculpted by Antonio Canova and is on permanent display at the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg. What I pictured was like, a visit to Russia that Czech would have made for business/political purposes pre-URSS fall... maybe she and Belarus would not be the tightest of friends, but they would certainly be at very least acquaintances. I think this ship has a lot of potential- and I have to thank a kind anon who gave me the idea in the first place!


	3. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belarus is invited to join a hunting trip. Warning for animal death/cruelty.

Natalya had tried to warn him in every possible way, but he had not listened.   
General Pyotr Aleksandrovich had set his eyes on her almost a month before, and every day since then had been a nightmare.   
When he gazed at her from across the room, she glared.   
When he spoke to her in a gentlemanly manner, she scoffed.  
Still, there was nothing, nothing at all she could do when it came to getting rid of this man: for he was a favorite of the Tzar, and always at her brother's side.  
First, she had to endure him at parties, talking non-stop about his properties and titles and bloodline, boasting them like the pathetic, conceited little man he was.  
If he had known, Natalya thought, about _her_ upbringing! A bloodline of peasants. A childhood with no property but the clothes that she and her siblings wore, so old and ripped that they could not even shield them from the cold.   
It was easier to love her now, perhaps. She looked at herself in the mirror, at her fine blue dress of wool and silk, tight enough to show off the curve of the corset constricting her waist.  
Her hair tied in a low ponytail, and curled at the sides: casual enough for the outdoors, but refined and ladylike nonetheless.  
She quickly averted her own eyes, blue and grey as the foggy sky of december.   
To be fair, she never understood what was so special about her lineaments.  
Throughout the centuries she spent at court, poets had sung songs about her fairness and beauty. Men and women of all ages and kinds, queens and priests and generals, had begged her on their knees to be their lover, or even just for a kiss and a kind word. The attention was not always so kind, however: she had been called a rusalka, a witch, a demon, Asmodeus himself, a force of lust and temptation of godly men.   
But looking at herself, Natalya could not see that beauty, that power. She did not have the innocent smile of her brother, nor the gentle eyes of her sister. Her eyes had been hardened by pain; her lips locked in a pout, unless no one else could see.  
As she fixed her sleeves, she heard someone knocking on the door.  
"Yes, come in."  
It was just a young servant, a girl she had never seen before.   
" _Madame_ ", she said, "your brother and his men are waiting for you to leave for the hunt."  
Natalya looked at her, plain and pitiful little mortal.   
How she wished she could be her! A common and uneventful life, and a much deserved death. The chance to finally rest and dream for all of eternity.  
"I'll be there in a moment.", she said, and reached for her coat and her best hat.

Natalya knew that this hunt would have been no fun. She would have stayed at home, but Vanya had begged her: _they're important people, orders from my boss, please Nata, do your best to please them._ Shallow and fake pandering, in the end. She agreed to come, but couldn't promise she would try to _please_ anyone.  
It was going to be nothing like the hunts of her childhood, when her and Vanya chased hares into the woods for hours until they gave in, and killed them with their bare hands.  
Not that she enjoyed the sight, or the gesture- in fact, just the memory of those she had killed made her want to avoid meat whenever there was a chance to do so. But they were starving, and they needed food: and the look on Sofiya's eyes when they got home every time, her tears of joy and pain! Another day of survival, for another life lost.  
No, this- this was a _game_ for _men_ , grown children who drooled like dogs at the sight of blood, and watched ecstatically the pain of others, barely containing their own excitement.  
Natalya saw their rifles and arrows. Nothing but toys to show off to make other children jealous, and to impress her. Maybe to compensate for something else.  
Pyotr Aleksandrovich was the most annoying of all, as usual, showing her his new rifle, the handle engraved in ivory with the coat of arms of his family.  
She did not respond to that, certain that if she did open her mouth, the man's stupid waistcoat and cravat would get drenched in her puke.  
In fact, she had said no word at all since the trip had begun; she sat proudly on her horse, watching as the little men in her brother's entourage mercilessly shot every animal on sight.  
The challenge of the day was to find a white mountain hare and kill it, and the time limit was sunset.  
But no one seemed too concerned about looking for hares, and Natalya knew they would not find any if they would have insisted on making this much noise.  
Looking at sky, Natalya could not even see the sun behind the thick grey clouds to track how much more the torture would last. Thankfully, she thought, days were shorter in winter: the solstice would come in just a few days, and night time in just a few hours.   
Meanwhile, the ground was covered with half-melted snow and a slight mist, glowing pale in the cold winter day. The birch forest was thick around them, but the path wide enough for them to follow without fear of getting lost.  
There was something almost ghastly about the trees, Natalya thought, pale and skinny, with clawed bony branches reaching up to the sky. Higher and higher every year; for trees could not move, and the sky was their only way to hope for freedom, always striving towards the sun.

"You know, Ivan Fyodorovich, my friend!", Pyotr Aleksandrovich's voice echoed through the trees, louder and deeper than any other. "Your sister is so quiet today, it is almost unblelievable."  
"Maybe she is just cursing all of us silently", a man said, and everyone's laughter followed.  
Everyone but Ivan's.  
"Maybe she brought that dagger because she is trying to murder us all", another said.  
Natalya did not respond. Her brother looked at her, a pitiful gaze. He silently mothed a sentence at her, and she read his lips.  
 _I'm sorry._   
Sorry, he said!  
 _Be damned, Vanya_ , she thought, _if it weren't for you and your boss, I could be having a bath right now, instead of having to listen to these lowly bastards!_  
"Maybe", the general uttered loudly, "maybe Natashen'ka has finally learned her manners, and knows how to be womanly and demure."  
Silence.   
Ivan opened his mouth to say something, but he got interrupted before he could even speak.  
"Maybe Natalya Fyodorovna has learned how to properly behave."  
"Maybe her brother has beaten some etiquette out of her!"  
"Maybe she is in love!"  
"Maybe she is!", Pyotr Aleksandrovich almost shouted, "Ivan, if your sister has become a proper lady, I'll have no choice but to take her as my wife."  
Ivan tried to mutter an answer. "I don't think that's possible-"  
"I'll make you an offer you cannot refuse! Besides, wouldn't you want to have nephews?"

That was it.  
Natalya _snapped_. A moment before she had a chance to take out her dagger and _slit the general's throat, cut his head and his testicles from his body and serve them to Vanya on a silver plate_ , she saw something.  
A white mountain hare, hiding behind a tree.  
She looked at the men: Pyotr Aleksandrovich had noticed it as well.  
" _That_ ", she shouted, jumping off her horse, " _that is MINE!_ "

Natalya had not hunted in centuries, but a lynx does not forget how to hunt. Oh, no.  
Quick, and merciless.  
With a single leap, Natalya grabbed it by the feet. Crawling on the ground, looming over the poor creature, she gave it a look of apology for what she was going to do. A silent prayer for its soul.  
With a single bite, Natalya ripped at its throat. Blood gushed over her face, staining her mouth and cheeks and the collar of her dress. With blood-stained hands, she adjusted her ponytail and helped herself stand, leaving a red print on the pale tree next to her.  
A smeared hand, a haunted presence in the forest.

When she looked back at the men, they did not dare speak.  
Ivan looked at her anxiously. He was probably blaming her for ruining the mood: _damn right, I'll ruin the mood if that's the mood your stupid "friends" want_.  
The general had dismounted his horse, probably reaching for her, but he was still frozen in his place. He would not dare touch her. Natalya glared at him, cold as the harsh winter around them.  
Over their heads, the sky was also painted red: sunset had come, and yet no one had noticed.  
She walked towards him, slowly but firmly, stomping her heels with each step.  
Using her free hand to retrieve her dagger.  
Now the general was standing in front of her, paralyzed and trembling.  
What a patethic little man! Shaking like a leaf in the fall.   
_Well, homunculus, it's winter. It's time for the icy cold to make yellowed, rotting leaves hit the ground._  
"I won."  
"Sorry, what?", he whispered, his voice lower than it had ever been. _Good_.  
"I won", Natalya repeated, louder this time, dropping the body of the hare at his feet.  
She brought her knife to his throat.  
"You wouldn't dare", he hissed.  
"Try me."  
With a swift movement, she cut off his cravat.  
Fine silk, soft and smooth on her cheek as she wiped the blood off her face.  
When she was done, she let it fall on the ground. And stepped on it, grinding her heel into the mud, just to make sure it would be _caked_.  
Everyone else was looking. Speechless as she mounted on her horse.  
"The sun has set, and I've won. I'm going to go home, Vanya."  
Her brother sighed as she turned around, following the path back to their residence.

Red sunlight on her red face. The cold winter wind making her cold eyes swell with tears.  
It had been centuries since Natalya had felt this alive.


	4. Farewell, my Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France and Scotland vow to be together again, at the time when Mary, Queen of Scots and Queen Dowager of France, left France to come back to her reign.  
> Written for day 4: Starcrossed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel necessary to specify something about this fanfiction: the letter that Scotland writes to France is NOT my own writing, save for a few sentences.  
> It's a slightly edited, adapted, modified version of the last letter that Mary herself wrote to her brother-in-law before she was executed. I had conflicted feelings about doing this, but if we speak about history, if we speak of these people who were before us, we have no way to presume what they thought in a moment like that... save for the words they left for us.  
> Centuries after Mary died, we can still get a glimpse of her thoughts and fears and grief: of her fierce determination and rage. And I wanted Scotland's thoughts to reflect those same feelings, in Mary's own words...  
> No matter how you feel about her as a historical figure, I advise you to read about her life, and to read her last words.  
> The last letter of Mary, Queen of Scots can be read here: https://digital.nls.uk/mqs/trans3.html
> 
> Clodoswinthe = nyo!France. I know that the popular fanon name for her is Marianne, but in my headcanons for her backstory, Marianne is the name she gave herself (as a fresh start for a new life) after the French Revolution; and since France's history as a country dates back to the Frankish kings and the Merovingian dynasty, I wanted her to have a very distinctively Frankish name, and to be very proud of it.  
> Deirdre = nyo!Scotland, who is basically an OC :'D but I hope you can appreciate her anyway. I'd love to develop her and her male counterpart more in the future, I love the history of Scotland so much and it's a shame that we have no canon character representing this beautiful country, save for a single illustration!

_August, 1561._

On the edge of the dock, Clodoswinthe watches the waves breaking frantically on the side of the ship. She lets the sounds around her soothe her pain: water on wood, and the cry of seagulls.  
And the persistent and mysterious song of the sea, its briny scent burning her nose.  
The voice of the people of Boulogne-sur-Mer, and the voice of the sailors preparing their ship to sail, checking if everything is ready and the wind is right.  
From behind her, finally, Clodoswinthe hears another sound: footsteps. Finally.  
Leading the group is a guard, followed by Mary, the Queen of Scots.  
Her brown hair glows in the light of sunset: waves of copper and gold on her forehead.  
A crown fit for a Queen, a halo fit for a Saint.  
And behind Mary, her ladies-in-waiting, splendid, noble maidens from all provinces of France and Scotland alike. Among them, Clodoswinthe finally sees her eyes: her beloved, radiant as the morning sun.  
When the group reaches her, she bows before her Queen Dowager. And the Queen bows her head, bidding her farewell to the Land that raised her, nurtured her.  
"You have been a dear friend to me, France, and a sister, and a mother alike."  
"And you, a lovely child, and a virtuous Queen. May you reign in Scotland like you did in France, Mary."  
With a smile, the Queen takes on board, followed by her ladies-in-waiting.  
All but one.  
Deirdre stays, and takes Clodoswinthe's hand to the back of the deck.  
Just for a moment, they stop, and time has stopped with them. The shadows cast by the sun, the gentle sound of the waves, the frantic beating of two hearts: all that matters, it's all that matters right now. Tears are just another drop of saltwater in the infinity of the sea.  
"Don't cry, my beloved", Deirdre says gently, leaving a kiss on her lover's hand, "I will be back, I will be back so soon that you won't even notice my absence. Soon, France and Scotland shall be one Reign, and what is one year, what is ten years when we will be together for eternity?"  
"I love you so much, that even a second without you feels like an eternity, and more."  
Clodoswinthe wants so desperately to be strong, to be unmoved. But her world is crumbling, and her only certainty is sailing away, far away from her.  
Never her heart had been set ablaze by love with such intensity, with such longing. Never had she felt this way for another person before.  
" _Clodoswinthe_ ", Deirdre whispers in her ear, her voice gentle and soothing and warm as a summer evening, "I always loved your name, so much.  
Remember who you are. Remember your forefathers, reges criniti, with the pride of a lion and the sanctity of angels; be strong for them, be strong for me. God himself crowned Charlemagne for a reason- and now, after all this time, we have a chance to rule again in His name! He is on our side, you'll see, and I'll be back soon for you."  
"Deirdre, I don't wanna hear about God and Glory. Please, Deirdre", she cries, "just tell me that you love me. Promise me that you won't forget me."  
Deirdre's smile is a blessing from above, a prayer for her aching heart.  
Her wavy red hair flows with the sea breeze, and Clodoswinthe looks for one last time at the freckles on her face, her neck, her bosom.  
"I love you, Clodoswinthe. Take this as a token of my love, and a promise of my return."  
Deirdre leaves a string of rosary beads in her hands. Beautiful, carved beads of amber and a silver cross. With a quick kiss on her lips, she leaves to board on the ship, ready to leave France any moment. She waves her goodbye from the ship's bow, mouthing familiar sounds, a phrase that Clodoswinthe knows too well.  
" _Tha gaol agam ort_ "; how many times had she heard it before, the secret moments at court, their playful dances at balls. She could still hear the devoted tenderness in Deirdre's voice as she whispered those harsh and ancient words, breathing them between her neck and shoulders when no one else could hear but her.  
" _Je t'aime aussi_ ", she whispers back, but Deirdre is disappearing into the sea, too far to hear her voice.

* * *

 

_February,1587._

 

> _Clodoswinthe, my only sweet and dear friend,_  
>  _having by God's will, for my sins I think, thrown myself into the power of England, my cousin, at whose hands I have suffered much for almost twenty years, I have finally been condemned to death by her and her Estates._  
>  _I have asked for my papers, which they have taken away, and I have been unable to recover anything of use to me, or even get leave either to make my will freely or to be sent in exile after my public execution, as I would wish, to your kingdom where I had the honour to be Queen, your sister and old ally. Tonight, after dinner, I have been advised of my sentence: I am to be executed like a criminal at eight in the morning. I have not had time to give you a full account of everything that has happened, but if you will listen to my unfortunate servants, you will learn the truth, and how, thanks be to God, I scorn death and vow that I meet it innocent of any crime, even if I were their subject. The Catholic faith and the assertion of Mary's God-given right to the English crown are the two issues on which we are both condemned, and yet I am not allowed to say that it is for the Catholic religion that I die, but for fear of interference with theirs._  
>  _The bearer of this letter and his companions, most of them your subjects, will testify to my conduct at my last hour. It remains for me to beg Your Most Christian Majesty, my dearest friend and old ally, who have always protested your love for me, to give proof now of your goodness by having prayers offered to God for a Nation, and a Queen, who has borne the title Most Christian, and who dies a Catholic, stripped of all her possessions._  
>  _I have taken the liberty of sending you two precious stones, talismans against illness, trusting that you will enjoy good health and a long and happy life. Accept them from your sweet and dear, who, as she dies once again, waiting to rise from death as a phoenix does from its ashes, from the blood and faith of her people, bears witness of her warm feeling for you._  
>  _Again I commend my servants to you. Give instructions, if it please you, that for the sake of Jesus Christ, to whom I shall pray for you tomorrow as I die, I be left enough to found a memorial mass and give the customary alms._
> 
> _This Wednesday, two hours after midnight._  
>  _Your very loving and most true sister,_  
>  _Rìoghachd na h-Alba,_  
>  _Deirdre._


	5. Bewitched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for day five of the event, the prompt for today was "supernatural".  
> The descendant of Ra herself (or so the legends say) has fallen, alas, for the daughter of Zeus on Earth.  
> To win over her heart, she has a family recipe to try- a love potion, and a spell.  
> Hemetre = ancient Egypt ; Aspasia = ancient Greece, or well, at this point in time and space, the personification of the Ptolemaic dynasty of Egypt.

Myrrh, cinnamon, a drop of lily essence and one of mandrake root extract.  
Honey, a luscious drop of gold into the mix.  
Only the most refined oily beeswax, to bind all of it together, and blend the scents.  
Hemetre looks at the result, a thick pomade ready to be applied to the tips of her hair. Her natural hair, a thick head of braids ending in luscious and trim curls: she has many wigs, yes, but it would not be as effective with one.  
_Intent is power. Your body is the vessel._  
She lights some incense and leaves some bread on her altar. Just a small offering to the Goddesses, an invocation and a prayer, so they may grant her the wish she is making.  
_In the name of Hathor._  
_In the name of Bastet._  
_Yes_ , she thinks, _this should work._  
She grabs the ceramic bowl with her potion, carefully applying it on every single curl, and slowly the scent of incense and spice fills the room.  
Hemetre looks at her face in her golden mirror, and doubts start to rise in her thoughts.  
_What if this won't work, though? What if it won't work, with another woman?_  
Impossible.  
The potion is a family heirloom, a recipe and a spell taught to her by her mother; and one that Hemetre herself taught to her sisters, and nieces, and grand-nieces... generation after generation of girls and women, women she had seen growing and dying, marrying and taking lovers.  
Most importantly, she had never seen the magic _fail_. There was no reason to think it would only work on men: her love was no different, right? Or was it?  
It was the most powerful love potion in all of Egypt, after all, a recipe revealed to the royal dynasty by Hathor herself... or so her mother had told her.  
But for it to work, for the nature of Magic itself, a love potion is not enough: _intent, intent is key!_ Intent is what will really bring your desire about. No room for doubts.  
The Gods, blessed their names, are only helpers in your quest for love.  
And so she faces herself in the mirror once again, brown eyes staring back at her, and notices that her lips are trembling just slightly.  
_I am Hemetre, King's daughter of his body and descendant of Ra. In my veins runs the blood of Gods and Pharaohs: what am I so scared of?_  
With a newfound courage, she grabs the last thing she needs, an earring of pearl, before walking out of her chambers and across the wide corridors of the palace, towards the throne room.  
She stands proud and straight as she walks towards the woman who is waiting for her.  
Hemetre gulps, almost too loudly- she can feel her heartbeat in her throat.  
It's time to put her magic through a test.

 

* * *

 

From behind one of the columns, Aspasia can see Hemetre as she enters the room.  
_She's so gorgeous_ , she thinks, and pictures herself kissing those beautiful plump lips of hers, and gently caressing the dark skin of her neck...

_(Deathless Aphrodite of the spangled mind_  
_child of Zeus, who twists lures, I beg you_  
_do not break with hard pains_  
_O lady, my heart!)_

The bright sun of Egypt, casting the long shadows of the columns and golden streaks in between, makes Hemetre's eyes glow with speckles of copper and honey.  
Aspasia's heart sinks in her chest.  
And today, she notices, her beloved seems to be wearing a new perfume: a scent of myrrh and cinnamon permeates the air, pleasing her senses and filling her soul with longing.  
"I was waiting for you", she says with a smile, "you're late."  
Hemetre averts her gaze, looking down at the granite floor under their feet.  
"I was giving my offerings."  
"Or maybe", Aspasia whispers playfully, poking at Hemetre's nose with her thumb, "you were just getting ready, judging from your tinted lips. Well, my dear, it was not time wasted... you are stunning, as always."  
Hemetre's face glows, and Aspasia catches a glimpse of love in her eyes.  
How long until she will admit her feelings, she wonders? It's been months now, from the first time she has noticed the heated and tender gazes that Hemetre gives her whenever she thinks she's not looking, or too oblivious to know what she's feeling.  
Well, Aspasia thinks, the advantage of immortality is that she could wait forever. A lifetime or two of waiting... so worth it, if the one she'd be waiting for was her.  
And judging from the political situation, and the relative stability of the Ptolemaic Kingdom, it looked like her time in Egypt would not be over any time soon. But maybe, she could do something about it, if only- if only she could invoke the blessings of slender Aphrodite... maybe, in mid-summer, she would plant a small garden for the Adonia.  
_But oh, to hell with magic and worship!_  
"Hemetre", she says, "do you believe in magic?"  
"Why, of course. Do you not?"  
"I do, I do. But sometimes, I think action is more effective than intent."  
Hemetre shoots her a doubtful look.  
"What do you mean?"  
"I'll show you", she says, and quickly presses a kiss against Hemetre's lips.

_(---But you, O blessed one,_  
_smiled in your deathless face_  
_and asked what (now again) I have suffered and why_  
_(now again) I am calling out_

_and what I want to happen most of all_  
_in my crazy heart. Whom should I persuade (now again)_  
_to lead you back into her love? Who, O_  
_Sappho, is wronging you?_

_For if she flies, soon she will pursue._  
_If she refuses gifts, rather she will give them._  
_If she does not love, soon she will love_  
_even unwilling_

_Come to me now: loose me from hard_  
_care and all my heart longs_  
_to accomplish, accomplish. You_  
_be my ally.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem quoted is Sappho's Hymn to Aphrodite, translated by Anne Carson.


	6. Close Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hungary and Ukraine spend the night together after a party.  
> Today's prompt was "secrets".

Laughter and the pungent smell of smoke follow Sofiya as she enters her chambers, giggling and warm and dizzy from the single glass of liquor she's had and from the pleasant company of Erzsébet, who enters her room after her.  
"I'm so tired! I'm so tired! I want to take this corset off so bad!"  
"You need help with that?"  
Sofiya glances at her friend, who smirks at her in return.  
"Yes, thank you", she says as she playfully kicks her fitted shoes off her feet, "it's starting to hurt! Can you undo the lace?"  
"Hmm, sure", Erszébet hums, gently touching Sofiya's exposed back. "I used to wear one of those, you know. Hurt like a bitch! How do you even endure it for so long, it's unreal."  
Sofiya feels her rough, strong hand unbutton her dress, slowly and carefully. When Erszi is done, she pulls the dress down, just enough to expose her corset and petticoat.  
She feels Erszébet's hands once again, hesitating this time, right before she starts untying her corset.  
When the thing comes off, Sofiya finally takes a long yearned deep breath.  
_What a relief._ It really felt like someone had freed her ribs from a cage.  
"You know, I don't know why I do this to myself. It hurts even more, when your chest is as... _full_ as mine is", she sighs, "but if I don't, my clothes just don't fit right."  
"Then change clothes, instead of torturing yourself."  
"And wear men's clothes even at parties, Erszébet? I'm not like you."  
Erszébet glares at her, and Sofiya realizes that might have come off as rude.  
Truth to be told, Sofiya thinks her friend is beautiful, in her own way.  
The loose blouse and her husband's military jacket suit her in a way she finds hard to explain.  
And the way she is sitting with her legs far apart, her pants tighten up to show off her strong thighs... Sofiya blushes, as it happens more and more often around Erszébet lately.  
_It must be a passing fancy. A fleeting feeling._  
"I mean, you're beautiful as you are! I did not mean it in a bad way. But I could never pull it off... I'm not as tall and handsome as you are."  
"Handsome?"  
Erszébet raises her eyebrows with a smile. Sofiya feels her cheeks flush even more.  
"Ah, I mean- you have a very, a very unique sort of beauty. I like that."

* * *

 

Sofiya had heard the rumors, and the palace talk.  
Whispers about Erzsébet cheating on her husband.  
But who was Sofiya to judge? After all, half of the ladies at court were doing the same. Respectable wives, mothers, even grandmothers, spending weeks or months alone in their summer homes, usually in the company of younger men, who loved them in ways their husbands could not, or would not.  
Also, she did not have a husband, so it was not like she could understand her situation. She had her own reasons for not getting married: above anything else, she could not suffer the company of men who usually seemed to care little about her as a person, and lots about her physique.  
She knew Erszébet's marriage was an arranged one, and that if Ivan had not been there to protect her, she would have had to suffer the same fate. It's not as if _nations_ , like they were, could get a say in what their bosses chose for them; and even if the Austro-Hungarian empire was a powerful reign and a good political alliance for the both of them, Erzsébet's marriage to Roderich was not any less forced or unsatisfying.  
More concerning than that, Sofiya had heard whispers about Erzsébet sharing a bed with Natalya.  
This rumor, for some reason, had stirred a wide range of emotions inside her, raw and warm and hurtful at the same time.  
Something she didn't feel quite ready to deal with, not quite yet.  
She enjoyed Erzsébet's company, her smile, her strength. The way she made her laugh. 

For the first time in centuries, she felt like someone actually saw her for who she was: not Ivan or Natalya's sister, not the person representing a nation in decadence, poor and snubbed by the people at court. Not powerful enough to be feared like her brother, not beautiful enough to attract people's attention and curiosity like her sister.

No, Erzsébet saw her as her own person, as a _woman_ , someone who had feelings and emotions and thoughts of her own- and for now, that shall be enough.

* * *

 

In the dim light of a candle, Sofiya gets up from the bed to change into her nightgown.  
Her neck hurts, and her hips feel sore from the pressure that the pannier is putting on them. She finally takes it all off and slips into her nightgown, sighing with relief, and wondering why she had not done it earlier. She was too tired, too lazy, and the prospect of a nap just too tempting. She was talking to Erzsé, and she forgot-  
When she turns back towards her bed, she notices that Erzsébet is looking at her.  
A rush of shame and embarrassment makes her heart jump.  
"I'm so sorry, I thought you were asleep!"  
"I was, I just heard you get out of the bed", Erzsébet mutters, sleepy and groggy, "it's fine. I'm sorry for staring. You have very nice shoulders... strong and wide. I had never noticed before."  
"Thank you!"  
Sofiya giggles, still in a sleepy haze, and then realizes.  
" _Wait, I have wha_ -"  
"Have you ever been in love, Ukraine?"

She did not expect to be interrupted. She did not expect to be asked that.  
Sofiya shrugs, sitts back on her bed and leans on one of her pillows, right next to Erzsébet where she was laying before.  
"... I don't know."  
She goes for the honest and blunt answer, earning a scoff and a playful, light punch on the shoulder from her friend.  
"You don't? How can you not know?"  
"I don't know how I feel."  
Her mind is a mayhem, a tempest of thoughts that clears immediately when Erzsébet smiles at her. The sun after the storm.  _So beautiful._  
"Your face", she says, "your face is enough to tell me you do know."  
Sofiya doesn't know how to respond. _So is she really in love with her friend? With Hungary?_  
_What of Roderich? What of her sister?_

  
"It's that Dmitry guy, right?"  
Erzsébet's question takes her aback once again. "I'm sorry, _what_?"  
"I've seen the way he looks at you, and anyone could tell." Hungary stands up and poses, bringing a lock of her long hair between her nose and her lips. Sofiya had not noticed that the pants she had been wearing were gone- she probably kicked them off before falling asleep, and now she was standing in front of her, loose blouse and bloomers and seemingly nothing else.  
"Sofiya Katen'ka Fyodorovna!", she says in a mocking deep voice, and Sofiya giggles, " _Lyubimaya moya_! You look beautiful today! How I long for a wife like you! If it wasn't for your brother, I would marry you on the spot!"  
"It's not like that at all!", Sophia whispers, giggling and blushing and hitting Erzsébet's hip with a pillow.  
Erzsébet flops back on the bed, her dark golden hair flowing loose. Her face is so close now that Sofiya can count the freckles on her cheeks- almost feel her breath on her neck...

"Close your eyes, Sofiya."  
"What for?"  
"Just do it. It will be a secret, just a secret between us."  
She does as she's told, and feels Erzsébet's weight shift on the bed, closer and closer to her.  
She feels her chest pressing on her back, strong and soft at the same time.  
"Imagine I'm your man Dmitry", she whispers, low and warm and sweet as cherry liquor, "picture him behind you."  
Erzsébet's hands travel to the front of Sofiya's nightgown, undoing the tight lace keeping it closed.  
The soft fabric falls over her shoulders.  
"You have a really beautiful neck. Has anyone ever told you that?"  
_No, not really._ Sofiya's heart races like a running horse, thumping and stomping against her ribs. Erzsébet's lips are on her neck now, tracing up to her ears. Her hands move lower and lower, until-  
"Your thighs, they're so soft..."  
Sofiya has never experienced anything like this, being touched by someone else is so different, so _foreign_. She gasps for air, and her heart is beating frantically, asking for more-  
" _Stop please, enough!_ "  
Her voice is assertive, and Erzsébet backs off.

  
When Sofiya opens her eyes, her friend is on the verge of tears.  
"I'm sorry, I thought- I thought you were ok with it."  
"I was", Sofiya whispers, "there is something I need to tell you. Before you go any further."  
"You're a virgin?"  
"Yes-- _no_! That's not what I meant to say", she pouts, glaring at Erzsébet, "what I do want to say is, I'm not sure, but..."  
"But?"  
"Erzsébet, I think I might be in love with you."

The only response Sofiya gets is a surprised stare, and Erzsébet's jaw falls as she tries to come up with words.  
"If you want to be my lover, I don't want this to be a game. I don't want it to be a  _secret_. I don't want any secret between the two of us, starting from now. Yes, I am a virgin. Now, is it true that you're sleeping with my sister?"  
Erzsébet stutters, stumbling on her words. "Well, what can I, what can I say about that, I, I mean, Natalya-"  
"I take that as a yes", Sofiya says with a resigned sigh. "Do you love her?"  
"No, not. Not truly. I like her, I guess- that's all. She's, how can I say this, very _passionate_. She kind of scares me. It only happened a couple times."  
"What of your husband?"  
Erszébet rolls her eyes, leaning back dramatically on the pillows.  
"My _husband_ ", she says, "Roderich knows I prefer the company of women, and doesn't care. He is more into company of the gentlemanly kind, himself."  
Sofiya gasps. "How does that even work, then? Your marriage... I could never marry, because I could never stand the idea... of the first night..."  
"That! _Oh my god!_ "  
Erzsébet starts laughing, and Sofiya wonders what is so funny about that. "My first night was a disaster, and not my first- _first_ at all. We are past that now. _Thankfully_."  
A moment of silence follows, and Sofiya looks at her smiling, blushing face. Her hair scattered and messy over the pink brocade of the pillow, a stream of gold glowing in the warm, flickering light of her candle. A withering flower is still stuck there with a ribbon, a touch of feminine vanity in Erzsébet that she finds, somehow, so endearing.  
Erzsébet, on her own account, is fidgeting nervously with the hem of her shirt and looking back expectantly.  
_Who knew that she could be shy, after all?_  
"So what does that make us now, Sofiya?", she asks, "Lovers?"  
"I have not gotten a confession from you yet.", she answers with a pout.  
Erzsébet smirks, tending her hand to gently caress her cheek.  
"Come closer, my beloved, and I will prove my love to you without any need for words."

 


	7. Zlatý Kolovrat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On her first day in Budapest, all Eliška wanted was a spinning wheel.  
> Written (so, so late!) for day 7: Origins.

On her first day in Budapest, when she was introduced to a room full of men wearing top hats on their heads and judgemental gazes on their faces, Eliška was asked a series of questions: so many things that she did not remember, others that she had never heard before.  
After a few hours of questioning, the men in the room decided that she was indeed special, she was indeed unique, they announced to her that she would live with the regent couple of Austria and Hungary from now on. They asked if she wanted anything to take with her, a person, or some of her belongings.  
"Sire, there is only one thing I want. Please, give me a spinning wheel."

* * *

 

"And why is that, if I may ask?"  
The inquisitive look on Poland's face looked almost like mockery.  
"I don't know", Eliška said, "I like the way it feels."  
The thread of yarn ran under her finger, soft and rough at the same time, as the wheel in front of her spun following the rhythm of her foot. "It's a good way to pass my time. You see, I used to sing to keep my rhythm steady... It sort of reminds me of my grandmother. She told me to do that."  
Poland shrugged, and leaned on the closest armchair in the room- masterpiece of ebony and rich brocade, as refined as the rest of the furniture was. Eliška felt out of place, alienated: she and her spinning wheel did not fit in.

* * *

 

She still remembered her childhood, and the happy days she spent with her grandmother.  
Eliška always began the day by feeding the chicken. Then she prepared the breakfast for her grandmother, her mother and her brothers, swept the kitchen, and when everything else was done she sat down at her spinning wheel and spun.  
When mother had left to go to the village and sell their produce, and her brothers were outside working in the fields, Eliška loved to sing the songs of her people as her grandmother taught her and kept her company.  
"You have such a pretty voice, _milý_ , as pretty as any song-bird in the forest."  
Eliška smiled, and with her hands worked the kinks and tangles in the yarn.

 _"I still hold her so dear, you know."_  
_"Your grandmother?"_  
_"Yes."_  
_"And why is that?"_  
_"She was the last person who knew me as a human."_

Eliška as still a little girl when her grandmother died. In a way, she was still a little girl- as the men in top hats had noted, mumbling and scoffing as they smoked their pipes.  
_She looks so young, like a child. She is so small, so scrawny, is this really the lands of our fathers?_  
And _was she_ , was she really the land of their fathers?  
Eliška did not know.  
Her mother had raised the same concerns, having heard of the history of Nations, and how they walked among people; but grandma shot her down, promptly.  
"Eliška just needs to eat more", she said, "and to go out in the sun. It's not that strange for a girl her age to look more like a child than like a woman."  
She died soon after, a month or so before Eliška's nineteenth birthday.

* * *

 

Eliška was first shown to the people with much fanfare and _grandeur_ , her hand held by the Emperor and a crown on her head.  
The luscious stoat skin and velvet cape that covered her shoulders felt heavy, and it was perhaps heavier than she was. The big skirt of her dress made her look even smaller, so frail and vulnerable. A sea of the finest blue silk from China, and Eliška, a powerless drowning child.  
"The lands of the Bohemian Crown", they announced, "the Kingdom of Bohemia, is right in front of you! Kneel before her!"  
As people kneeled, all Eliška wanted was to sink and disappear.

* * *

 

Suddenly, Eliška turned and realized that while she got lost in her thoughts and memories Poland had gotten close and was once again standing next to her- _she jumped in her seat, startled-_ and the thread of yarn between her fingers snapped.  
Poland did not move an inch.  
_What a strange guy._  
"I'm sorry if I startled you. I think I get it now", he said, calm as ever, "the thing you said about, like, the way it feels. The songs. I never liked spinning as a child, but I'm kind of getting into it."  
He smiled, and she hesitantly smiled back.  
"You know how to spin?"  
It was the first time she had heard of a man who used to spin wool. What a strange guy, indeed!  
"I used to, but it's been so long! An eternity."  
Poland laughed nervously, and gently touched the prickly spindle with his thumb.

 _Yes, an eternity. That's about it._  
How many days had she spent like that, singing and spinning, cooking and cleaning, for her mother, brother, nephew, and so on— hours and days and seasons and centuries, scanned by the incessant chants and the sound of the wheel?  
How many days were ahead, trapped in a room of refined furniture like a nightingale in a cage of gold?  
Eliška did not know, did not dare to ask.  
They said the fate of her people ( _her people_ , she thought, those words did not make any sense: she was no queen, no God!) was tied to her; and while she did not yet understand it fully, not really— what did it mean for them, and what a burden would it be?  
All she knew was that she wanted so desperately to go back, back to the fields and chicken, and her home and her grandma— her life as a child, the spring of her life, when still an adolescent she believed that a little sun and more food would make her normal. Make her mortal.

"Poland", she tentatively said, not quite sure on how to address him yet, "do you want to try?"  
"The wheel?"  
"Yes, the wheel. I can teach you once again", she said, "since you seem to have forgotten. It seems like there's something I know better than you do, after all."  
She smirked playfully at him, inviting him to take her seat.  
"Fine", he scoffed, "but only if you sing and help me keep up. I bet you have a pretty singing voice, Bohemia."  
"You can call me Eliška."  
"I'm Feliks."  
He sat at the spinning wheel, and she observed amused his perplexed expression.  
"You join the yarn like this, Feliks. And then, you just have to keep up— you'll see, it's fun!"  
As he struggled to even get it started, Eliška sat on the beautiful armchair in her room.  
She took a deep breath, and smelled something sweet in the air: a hint of vanilla and jasmine, probably a perfume, probably coming from Poland. Feliks.  
She had never realized how comfortable the armchair was until now; and after clearing her voice, she began to sing on the notes of _Pod tým naším okéneckem—_  
_Tell me, dear one, 'midst this beauty what can cause you woe?_  
The voice of her grandmother echoed in her head, singing along with her.  
_You have such a pretty voice, milý, as pretty as any song-bird in the forest—_  
And before she noticed, tears ran down her cheeks, tears that Eliška tried to wipe away with her hand as she adjusted a wild strand of brown hair.  
"Eliška", Poland said, "you do have a wonderful voice."  
She smiled: and a smile, as they both knew, is sometimes worth a hundred words.  
Eliška knew that from that day, she would no longer be alone, a stranger in a strange land. And the nightingale was, once again, free to sing her song.


End file.
